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Thursday, November 21, 2013

"Garth Risk Hallberg's novel took the publishing industry by storm last week and provides evidence of a resurgence of long fiction." -JULIE BOSMAN, New York Times

This
is my old writing teacher's stupid, talented, and now apparently rich
son. He wrote a big, ugly, 900 page New York City in the 70's
monster, and seeing as how big books are big business these days,
swarms of maniac publishers, incised by the immense weight and girth
of young Hallberg's manuscript, bit, clawed, and clubbed each other
over the head for the privilege of standing atop that
sodden heap of their fellow tradesmen and dumping buckets of bloody
cash all over the emerging author. The news of this publishing
baptism has brought out the darker aspects of my admittedly flawed
personality. At my best I am sweet and charming, serene and
charitable. Why, I might even hold the door for a complete stranger. But
when I reflect on this news, this damned incredible news, all I want
to do is smash furniture, and bark and growl. The worst of it is that
Garth is nine years my senior at thirty-four. Were our ages closer,
it would be a great relief. I could lay my writing aside and hurl
myself out of a window knowing I made the only choice available to
me. But this near decade distance between us paralyzes me with a
fools hope and leaves me to suffer.

I
hope I don't soon run into Bill. I would have to assault him with
profanity just to beat back his fatherly pride. That bastard. That
damn, marvelous bastard, and his marvelous son. Well, I won't buy this gilded book. That much is for sure. Not on your life.

Might
borrow it from the library, though. Or more likely a friend,
judging as the publisher's clearly anticipate every third person in
the country will own a copy by the end of next year.